Dad

 It was 44 years ago this week that my father died. He was 56 and I was 25 and still drinking, a lot, without any tools to deal with the grief. He had tobacco-related throat cancer that took his larynx about 6 months before he died. It seems ironic now, that my introverted Dad, who didn't talk much anyway, couldn't at the end of his life. He wrote notes, and had one of those things that you hold to your throat for a robot sounding voice. What I wouldn't give to hear his laughter again. 

And what I wouldn't give to have a sober, adult conversation with him. He stopped drinking when I was about 12, and a year or so later, I picked up the baton of the family disease and ran with it. So even though he was sober, I was a somewhat surly teen, giving my mother gray hair, sneaking out at night, drinking until I puked on weekends. Did they not hear me in the upstairs bathroom? Or not want to? I'll never know. And so, not given to much conversation when he was drinking, I don't know that I would've participated after he sobered up anyway. We weren't the heartfelt-talk kind of family - I can count on one hand the times he and I had more than casual conversation, and we usually communicated through Mom. My older cousins seemed to have more of a friendly relationship with him than I did - we got along fine (unless I cursed at Mom), he did kind things (like coming up to the unheated bathroom to turn on a space heater on cold mornings). It was a good childhood in many respects.

Good, with very little drama, and... much of my early recovery was spent in dissecting what was wrong, what was missing in the guidance and support department. I needed to do that work, that excruciating work of therapy and inventories and many tears before I truly knew, from my head to my heart, that Dad's depression and alcoholism had nothing to do with me. That surrender came when I had about 20 years sober - it was a long journey before I could look at the past without staring (to borrow a phrase from Courage to Change). Because ours was a relatively calm household, I couldn't point to this or that as a "reason" for my dis-ease. Untangling the ways in which my father's alcoholism impacted me was further complicated by the fact that he was dead. Mom and I talked about his drinking years, but she only knew how it affected her.

Somewhere along the way, the story line shifted, moving from what was missing to what was there - love, strong values, an example of responsibility. Once, when I was in a quandary about yet another breakup with an introvert, I talked with my best friend about what I thought was my dad's legacy, i.e. that I was destined to pine for people who weren't available to me. My friend said, "Jeanine, don't you think that if there is a heaven, your dad is looking down and wants you to be happy, joyous and free?" Of course he would, and that statement was a big piece of dropping the rock of blaming current choices on someone who'd been gone for years. I made up my mind that if I was destined to be attracted to partners who were like my father, I'd concentrate on his positive qualities - he was fair, honest, hard-working and loyal, and so much more than merely an alcoholic.

I think it was after my mother died, in 2012, that the shift solidified, after reading letters between her and her father, learning her siblings didn't want her to marry my dad, presumably due to his drinking. I could say the words, "They did the best they could," but until I could actually feel that, and see my folks as human beings with wants and strengths and flaws and dreams all their own, I wouldn't have peace. It sounds pretty obvious now, but really, that journey from the head to the heart was a winding road.

I've long said that I miss my dad, but it was when I first saw my husband reading to his young daughter before bed that I realized, yes, I miss my father - the WWII vet, humorous fellow he was and part of my grief was in missing what our relationship could've been - could've been were he not born in 1924 and his parents hadn't divorced and his mother died young;  could've been if I didn't start drinking at 13, hence avoiding adult supervision whenever possible; could've been if either of us had the tools to communicate. 

It was decades before I knew the date he died - I was hammered during his illness and the aftermath. It wasn't until somone in an Alanon meeting spoke to anniversaries of loss as an emotional minefield that I looked up the actual date. Oh, I thought. It's August. Maybe that's why it felt like Dad was in the car with me yesterday. Maybe that's why I get a little sad, not knowing why until I stop to feel (not think) about it. 

I still have a note he wrote before he died, asking that I take care of my mom. I did, to the best of my ability. In showing up for her and walking along on her end-of-life journey, I like to think I made living amends to him. Some people would say that he is here, that he's aware of my life. Some might say that he is part of my higher power (or higher posse, as my spouse calls it). I think he's in my heart, and on this overcast August day, I can let the tears come as I say, "I miss you, Dad." 

Funny - I wasn't sure what I was going to write about this week, but apparently my father wanted some attention. I've read that one of the developmental tasks of older adulthood is learning to live with grief. I'm coming to understand that this isn't just current losses but attached to all the love and good-byes said over the years. A gift of long-term recovery is that I'm less inclined to run from my feelings these days. I can breathe into the pain, which is merely love in disguise. I can dig in the garden, listen to music perhaps, look at old photos. I can remember that my father never got to retire, which doesn't mean I have to live each day to the absolute fullest, but can be grateful for each wake up, which is another chance to participate in my life. This life is short, and shorter for some than others. 

What losses, old or newer, revisit your heart from time to time? How do you acknowledge what might be a complicated history? What do you do when intense feelings hit, sometimes seemingly out of nowhere? How do you honor the whole convoluted mix of history and loss, as well as conversations had or missed opportunities? Are there any questions you might want to ask living relatives before they're gone?

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The NOW WHAT workbook is 78 pages of topics and processing questions, great for solo exploration or in a small group. Go to the WEB VERSION of this blog page for the link on ordering (PDF for those outside the U.S., or hard copy mailed to you). Contact me at SoberLongTime@soberlongtime.com or shadowsandveins@gmail.com with questions. And a reminder that the workbook, is available at the Portland Area Intergroup at 825 NE 20th. for local folks.